The smith was deterred and dejected. Three times Arnold Kye, now calling himself Iron Heart, had attempted to forge a weapon of bronze for his bride-to-be. Three times now something in the casting and tempering had failed and the blade had failed a simple strength test, curling into a useless crescent under only a fraction of his strength.
Iron Heart was determined to give Foxfire a weapon that was not only as beautiful as she was, but that matched her in power and resilience as well. There are certain symbolisms in giving the love of one’s life an edged weapon, not the least of which was that should he harm her, she was free to plunge that length of metal into his chest for the crime of betraying her heart.
Arnold Kye was a skilled machinist and metalworker. Metal moved and flowed under his hands almost like a living thing, until it took the shape and measurements he wanted, even down to a thousandth of an inch, but for all those skills that Iron Heart possessed a mastery of he was still very much a newcomer to smelting and forging. Fortunately, Iron Heart was also not a boastful or prideful individual, and so it was only with a small twinge of regret that a coal black hoof reached out and pulled the handset off a phone mounted to the wall.
“Reckless Abandon Leathers, Fred speaking,” was the answer a few rings later.
“Hey Fred,” Iron Heart returned. “It’s Arnold. Arnold Kye. Remember me?”
“Arnie! You old pirate, it’s been ages. I haven’t seen or heard from you since… “ Fred’s voice quickly lost its vibrance. “Since the funeral.”
“Yeah,” was all that remembered grief allowed Iron Heart to say for a moment, before the image of a white unicorn smoothed over the old pain into something bearable. “Um, I need some help with a project I’m working on. You do any smelting?”
“Ha!” barked a laugh out of Fred, “You don’t know what my day job is do you?”
“Well, I know you make um… “ Iron Heart’s voice trailed off as he tried to phrase things delicately. “Uh… intimate leather apparel, but I remember you also saying something about metal finishing?”
“Corsets, cuffs, crops, collars. You commission it, I make it,” Fred confirmed, with a chuckle. “But that’s just a sideline. My day job is metalworking and foundry work. What’s the problem?”
“I’m trying to make my fiancée a sword, out of bronze,” Iron Heart began, relief flowing into him as he realized that he had indeed called the right person. “But every time I heat treat the blade something goes wrong and it doesn’t take. Bends like I hadn’t done anything at all.”
“Fiancée?” Fred queried, as realization set in on just how important his old friend’s project was. “And you’re making her a sword. Okay, and it’s still malleable after heat treatment? What are your percentages of copper and aluminum?”
“Aluminum?” Iron Heart demanded, confused. “Why would I put aluminum in bronze? I’m using tin and copper.”
“OH!” Fred replied, in an explosive exhale. “Well, there’s your problem. You’re going old school, with classic bronze.”
“She’s a classic kind of lady,” Iron Heart responded, a smile on his muzzle. “Pagan too, so steel didn’t seem like the right sort of metal to use.”
“Yah, classical bronze would be the way to go,” Fred said, adding, “and I hear how important this to you just from the sound of your voice.”
“Eh, I’m just a little horse now, is all,” Iron Heart quipped back, knowing his friend had no way to know the joke he had just tossed out. “But you said you knew what the problem was?”
“Yah,” Fred agreed, “you’re using classic bronze as opposed to aluminum bronze. Aluminum bronze you heat treat, but classical bronze ignores heat. When you go old school, you have to work harden the stuff.”
“Uh, work harden?” Iron Heart asked, his unseen head tilting to one side in confusion. “How the hell do you work harden something?”
“You beat the shit out of it,” Fred espoused, warming to the subject. “You hit it, you work it. You’ve got to feel the metal underneath your hammer and get to know it. Work it right up to the breaking point, and hold it at that edge without going over. Back off, then do it a little harder. Do it right and you’ll wind up with a blade that’s sharper than steel, and harder than iron. It just won’t keep that edge as long, is all.”
“Sounds perfect,” Iron said, nodding his head. “I just hit it, eh?”
“Work the edge, and get to know the feel of the metal,” Fred corrected. “The blade will let you know how far you can take it. Listen to it, like when you can tell how a cut is going from the sound of a boring bar, or the feel of the adjustment dial on a lathe. Do that, and your Lady will have a piece she’ll never forget. When’s the wedding?”
“We haven’t set a date yet, and getting up to Brightly isn’t always easy in the best of times,” Iron Heart responded, suddenly anxious to make another attempt to forge the blades he desired to create. “I’ll send you an invite when we do. Gotta go. Thanks man!”
“Anytime,” Fred said, as the call ended and he turned back to the commission he was working on. As he worked he thought on his old friend up north in Canada and his mind began to link various bits of the conversation. “Hang on. Brightly… I’m a little hoarse? I’M A LITTLE HORSE? Son of a BITCH!”
Fred’s family came into Fred’s small workshop in the moments following his odd shout to find the leather and metal worker doubled over in paroxysms of laughter, all thoughts of grommets, laces and leather panels forgotten under the power of the delayed pun.
The princess was pleased with herself. It had taken her a long time, but she had finally found a solution to a vexing problem that had been keeping her from enjoying her impromptu vacation.
“So, with the revisions to paragraph six, subsection b, I think we may have an agreement,” Princess Celestia said, to the others gathered around the table. “Unless anyone has any other revisions or corrections they would like to propose?”
“Well, we really would prefer a larger percentage of the income from the commercial development of magic,” mused the Hieltsuk representative. “We are giving up our rightful claim to this land, after all.”
“One tenth of one percent may not seem like much, Mr. Housty,” admitted the princess, “But when you consider the fact of that income will be guaranteed in perpetuity, it will add up to quite a tidy sum over the years.”
“That it will, Princess,” agreed the man, with a face lined by years of wind, weather and life. “My people are used to taking the long view of things after all. Just like yourself. I still find it hard to believe that you are apparently over a thousand years old.”
“Well, we still haven’t determined if Equestrian years are the same as the years here on Ca—Earth,” Celestia replied, correcting herself with a small blush.
“Speaking of which,” interjected the Canadian representative, a dark skinned woman wearing casual business attire. “While I agree in principle with the sovereignty agreements we have here, I have to warn you that it isn’t going to be easy getting this ratified through Parliament.”
“I have faith that your Prime Minister will be able to convince enough people that this is in the best interests of all,” Celestia replied, before adding, “I confess that the idea of a representational democracy is an interesting concept. One that we’ve never tried in Equestria.”
“The term is actually ‘Constitutional Monarchy’,” the woman corrected politely. “Our government is one where our sovereign is obliged to operate within a legal framework. As opposed to an absolute monarch, such as yourself, who is unrestrained by laws, legislature or customs.”
“I am deeply bound by custom, and by the wishes of my little ponies,” Celestia answered, the slightest touch of ice frosting her words as she responded in kind to the equally soft note of disapproval from the woman. “We may not have a legislature per se, but any pony can approach me and receive a fair and impartial consideration of their issues. As opposed to the layers of bureaucracy your people need to go through.”
“Ladies, if we might return to the matter at hand?” the Hieltsuk representative asked, attempting to put a stopper on the verbal clash before it even got going. Jacqueline Cavagnal was a firm anti-monarchist and she had been determined not to allow the princess to add to her authority in any way in Canada.
“To review,” Housty added, once he had the attention of the other two in the room, “we’ve decided that the Brightly Autonomous Zone will be a combined protectorate of Canada, Equestria, and the Hieltsuk First Nation. The BAZ to be defined as a sphere with an eight kilometer radius as measured from Miners Memorial Park in Brightly.”
“Canada will be responsible for the BAZ’s external security, the Hieltsuk will deal with infrastructure and maintenance, while Equestria will be responsible for security of the portal itself and maintenance of their new embassy,” Cavagnal commented, with a snort and a small smile of apology to Celestia as she continued with, “BAZ is a silly name though.”
“Everypony loves to shorten things down,” Celestia said, with her own nod of apology. “We couldn’t stop them if we tried.”
“Anything else?” Housty asked, leafing quickly through a very large stack of papers.
“The Zone itself will be governed by a triumvirate council composed of a Canadian, a member of the Hieltsuk First Nation, and an Equestrian,” Celestia added, planting a hoof in her face as she had a sudden revelation. “OH.... I can’t believe it. We forgot to put in who is going to head that council initially.”
“Oh God, you’re right,” Cavagnal groaned, sliding a hand down her own face. “I can’t believe we forgot something as basic as someone to be the Chair. Merde.”
“Don’t feel bad, you two. I just realized it myself,” Housty said, by way of comfort until a sudden idea came to him. “I move we appoint Jean Pedersen, also known as Foxfire, as the first head of the BAZ council. Future heads of the council to be determined by majority vote of the citizens of Brightly, British Columbia.”
“That would be a spectacularly bad idea,” Celestia blurted out, the outburst surprising Cavagnal with its candor from the usually guarded and savvy Equestrian.
“I would think she would be perfect,” the woman replied, thinking that she might have found a way to put one over on the Equestrian monarch. “She’s a native-born Canadian citizen, lives day to day as an Equestrian, and she’s lived in Brightly long enough to have a fair idea of the needs of the area.”
“Foxfire is pregnant, and is planning on getting married sometime soon,” Celestia said smoothly, even as her mind raced to give a plausible excuse for her denial of Foxfire that didn’t mention umbrals or their thirst for power. “Plus, she has no desire at all to get involved in politics. Local or otherwise.”
“It would only be for the first three year term, unless she was re-elected to the post,” Cavagnal riposted, her practiced ear hearing the lie of omission in the Equestrian’s voice. “And women are more than capable of being effective politicians and mothers at the same time.”
“Besides,” Housty chimed in, “isn’t Equestria a matriarchal society for the most part? I thought you would be thrilled to have a wom— er, mare, appointed to the post.”
“Uh…” Celestia began, voice trailing off as she tried to think of a way to protect Foxfire from what could be an ultimate temptation.
The unicorn was annoyed and angry at the man in front of her. She had been listening to him for almost fifteen minutes now as he rambled on. Listened because he didn’t seem to hear her whenever she spoke to him.
“Now Jean, I know your girl promised not to transform anyone,” Montcalm was saying, for the fourth time, “And I get that she might not be willing to admit to a mistake with all the pressure she’s under but—”
Why do you suffer this fool, my host? the Umbral inside of Foxfire’s mind hissed. Please, for both our sanities, end his life and his endless prattling with it.
When he is not being a typical male, chauvinist idiot, he is a friend and has served our town well for many years, was Foxfire’s response, as she tuned out the mayor in order to listen to the creature that was bonded to her mind. He is also an ally. So no, I am not going to kill him and don’t you even think of trying to take over to do it yourself.
I gave you my word that I would do no such thing, unless our lives were at stake, the Umbral grumbled back. However, listening to this mendicant is close to active torture. If we cannot kill him, can we maim him a bit? I’m sure he does not need all of his… What did you call them again? Toes?
“Jean?” Montcalm asked, realizing his audience had become unresponsive and had a thousand yard stare. “Jean, are you paying attention?”
Foxfire jerked her attention back outside of herself to address the mayor while firmly squelching her desire to throttle the man. A sentiment the umbral was more than willing to encourage, and likely had been subtly egging on for awhile now.
“As I said earlier when you dragged me in here,” Foxfire ground out, doing her best to keep her voice level and even. “Shield Maiden didn’t cast the spell. Those newfoals managed to summon up the magic all on their own.”
“But—” Montcalm began, only to be interrupted as the unicorn’s temper blazed along with her eyes.
“MY daughter,” Foxfire began hotly, before pausing to take a breath to calm herself down. “My daughter doesn’t lie. Especially about magic. She knows that hiding something like this would only make it worse in the end. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Eh?” Montcalm asked, as he began to realize that he might have pushed things a little too far.
“Father Addison and I both performed acts of magic while in human form, which makes it more than possible for those Americans to have done so as well,” Foxfire reminded the man, realizing the bolt had gone home as she saw his eyes widen in remembrance of those strange days two months gone. “And while we are at it, I’ll thank you to address me as ‘Foxfire’ when I am a pony.”
He should be addressing you as ‘Your Majesty’ while on his knees before you as he grovels for his worthless life, stated the Umbral, in no uncertain terms from the back of Foxfire’s mind. You are to be a queen. Queen of Brightly and the Lands Beyond. You shall be glorious and mighty, with all the leaders of this squabbling world bowing before you lest they face your terrible wrath.
The Umbral supplied Foxfire a vision of her sitting on a throne, on her head a silver crown shaped like a pair of crescent moons joined at the tips, with silver wire spiraling around her horn all aglow with smokey violet power, while a crowd of men in suits kneeled before her.
But today is not that day, Foxfire quipped back, dismissing the provided fantasy with a mental wave. Now hush and let me concentrate.
“Sorry Foxfire,” Montcalm replied, running a hand through thinning air. “I forgot, plain and simple. With all these changes going on, I’m just not sure I can keep up anymore. Horgan wants me as his point man for some issues, and I’m thinking of stepping down before my term ends in November and letting someone else take over.”
Foxfire took a new look at Darrell Montcalm and realized how tired the man appeared. Brightly’s mayor was nearing the end of an active middle-age, but now he just looked old, and tired, and worn-out. The unicorn saw a face that was seamed with worry lines that hadn’t been present even a few months ago as its owner struggled to deal with changes that would have been challenging to men half his age.
In that moment, Foxfire saw a man who was trying his best, and was deeply worried that it just wasn’t good enough anymore, and that people he cared for were going to pay the price for his infirmity. The fury of the unicorn vanished like meadow mist being struck by the summer sun of that revelation, and leaning forward Foxfire simply asked, “How can I help?”
Emotions played across the face of Brightly’s mayor in rapid succession. Hope, chagrin, gratitude and even touch of anger made their appearances before all of them were hidden by the habits of years in local politics and a rallying slurp from a cup of coffee.
“Help me understand magic, Foxfire,” Montcalm implored. “I’ve been trying to do the same things I always have, because they’re what I know. But this whole magic thing I don’t get. You were always the mystical one in town. Our very own ‘Witch of the Woods’, and that’s what I need right now. I need the unicorn witch of Brightly to tutor an old man in the ways of magic and sorcery. At least enough so I can understand what’s going on.”
“That’s… that’s a pretty tall order,” Foxfire admitted, inwardly pleased and proud that her life had made such an impression on what had always seemed like a plain and orthodox man. “Magic is a lot more than just saying some words, and swinging around a pointy stick. It takes visualization, focus, and a driving need to even have a chance of success. Pony or not.”
“I don’t need to actually do anything,” Montcalm shot back, frustration in his voice. “I just need to understand what’s going on. I mean it’s not like I’m going to go ‘bang’ and expect things to blow up.”
The older man punctuated his remarks by mock shooting his coffee cup with his forefinger, which promptly jumped as a piece of ceramic the size of a nickel popped out of one side. Cooling coffee poured out the hole and all over Darrell Montcalm’s desk, to the utter shock and amazement of both pony and person.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Montcalm breathed. “How the hell did that just happen?”
The Crusaders were bored. They had been patient, they had kept their hooves out of things, they had even been quiet, but enough was enough.
“Excuse me, but is this going to take much longer?” Sweetie Belle asked, mindful of her manners so that Rarity wouldn’t be annoyed with her later on.
“Yeah. C’mon already,” Scootaloo chimed in, bouncing up and down and completely oblivious to the facehoof Sweetie was giving herself as the orange filly destroyed the polite facade she’d been constructing. “We’ve been waiting forever!”
“Sorry girls,” commiserated Twilight, her white lab coat swishing along her flanks as she moved from one piece of arcane equipment to another, “but I need to get these calculations just right. Starlight, can you check the Anti-spinward Drift Compensator to see if the correct values are set?”
“On it,” replied the unicorn, her own lab ensemble had the addition of a pair of oversized goggles, which she used to check an odd device with several tubes sticking out of it. “I’m getting values of three point one four one five eight by ‘P’.”
“That can’t be right,” Twilight responded, a frown creasing her muzzle. “The only way that could happen is if Earth’s thaumic constant was shifting, and that’s impossible.”
“What’s a ‘thaumic constant’ an’ why is moving it impossible?” Applebloom asked from the sidelines.
“Why didja ask her that?” hissed Scootaloo. “Now she’s gonna go on forever about boring stuff.”
“At least talking about boring stuff is better than just watchin’ boring stuff,” Applebloom reasoned. “Besides, we might be able to help.”
“Cutie Mark Crusader, Magic Helpers!” shouted the trio in unison, all conflict forgotten in their bond of friendship.
“Every world has its own ‘Thaumic Constant’, which is its base level of magic,” the lavender alicorn was explaining, not even noticing the byplay going on at the side of what had become a second portal laboratory in Twilight’s castle. “Local levels of magic can go up and down, like in Sunset Shimmer’s world when they discovered their magic geodes there, but the base level never changes.”
“And Earth’s is?” Sweetie Belle prompted.
“Sure seems to be,” Starlight Glimmer answered as her mentor started to tear into the piece of equipment, parts flying everywhere. “Whiiiiich is completely impossible, of course. Must be a mistake in our measurements somewhere.”
“I measured it three times!” Twilight exclaimed, only her hindquarters and tail visible now as the rest of her was deeply in the housing of the troublesome device. “Three! I always triple-check everything.”
“I know, Twilight,” responded Starlight, marefully concealing a sigh of exasperation with a roll of her eyes. “But what’s going to be more impossible? That Earth’s base level of magic is rising, or that you got a scientific measurement wrong?”
Twilight rocketed out of the housing of the compensator to grab hold of the unicorn with a speed that would have done Pinkie Pie proud, and the speed of her words would have made the party planner positively pleased, “What do you mean I might have gotten a measurement wrong? I never get a measurement wrong, except of course for that one time where I was measuring body parts for a comparative equine biology class and no one told me that parts on stallions can get bigger or smaller depending on external temperature and/or direct tactile stimulus and I’ll have you know I’ve never gotten a measurement wrong before or since and I never will because I triple check everything, including the accuracy of my measuring instruments. So there!”
“So… “ Starlight hesitantly replied, being careful to make no sudden moves to startle the manic alicorn. “Earth’s base level of magic is changing?”
“But that’s impossible too,” sighed Twilight, relaxing her deathgrip on Starlight, who hung limply in relief at the calmer tone.
“Sherclop Holmes says that when you get rid of the impossible, whatever's left has to be right,” Applebloom offered. “Even if it’s as unlikely as pears growin’ on apple trees.”
“You’re right, Girls,” Twilight replied, setting her student down. “As improbable as it is, I must have gotten the reading wrong. Sorry about that, Starlight.”
“No worries,” Starlight chuckled, picking herself up. “I get mare handled all the time for making suggestions to manic mages. I’ll just go get the equipment out for another reading.”
“This is gonna take forever, isn’t it?” Scootaloo groused, with a dejected sigh.
“Sorry, but if I don’t get this right all sorts of bad things could happen,” Twilight said, by way of agreement. “I’d hate to accidentally open a gate to the wrong dimension, or collapse the portal, or summon an eldritch horror from beyond time and space.”
“We’ll come back later,” said Sweetie Belle, getting up to her hooves. “Where do you girls want to go?”
“Let’s go see Zecora,” suggested Applebloom. “Maybe she might have a potion or somethin’ that can help.”
“Beats sitting around here,” Scootaloo responded. “Let’s go.”
Together, the three fillies left the room to the two adult mages who were going to be buried deep in both arcane, technical, and above all, boring matters for quite some time. Not one of them realized that Twilight’s readings had indeed been accurate, and that in a secluded grove near Brightly, a tree with rainbow coloured apples had recovered from its brush with premature winter, and was now a blazing green with the full vibrancy and power of summer’s magic.
The smith was determined. Three times the crafting of the swords for his beloved and their joined families had failed. Three times lengths of alloyed metal had curled into useless masses of artistic arcs, lovely to look at but utterly devoid of purpose. What he wanted, what he needed was something both functional and beautiful, just like the woman who had come into his life.
Three times he had failed, but this time he knew where he had gone wrong, and as the opening beats of Basil Poledouris’ “Anvil of Crom” thundered once more through the shop, the flames of the forge lit anew, the scream of pumped air matching the notes of the trumpets in the song.
Flame reached out to caress the crucible containing an exact combination of tin and copper, the ancient metals that had first driven man’s civilization, and as they melted in the loving embrace of the fire they blended into the alloy known as bronze. The bronze of Babylon and Sumer, the metal that had driven the power of Athens and Sparta into names that will never be forgotten for as long as humanity continues to walk this earth. The metal of ancient majesty and power lived again as molten fire in that small shop, moving like a living thing as Iron Heart poured it forth into the five molds that had been fashioned for it.
With the care of a lover, Iron Heart allowed the five lengths of metal to cool. Three were smaller blades, cast in the forms shaped like Roman gladii, only smaller. One, was cast into the shape of a classic falchion, its classic heavy forward blade meant for himself. The final blade, which was meant for Foxfire, was shaped in the style of a scimitar. Its curve meant to symbolize the arc of his love’s lunar patron and ideal for use in the swift flowing motions that his mare preferred.
Iron Heart shook the scimitar free of the grip of the molding sand, taking a moment to admire the deep sunset colour of the metal before setting to work. “Work the blade” he had been told, and work it he did, pounding his hammer up and down the length of metal, thinning the edge as he moved the blade back and forth along the anvil to the beats of his music.
But even so, something was missing. Iron Heart knew he was on the right track, and that the blade he was working would be a sword of both beauty and strength, but it was lacking that indefinable extra touch. There was something off, and for the life of him, Iron Hoof could not figure out what. That is, until his music player ticked over into the files shared to him by his bride to be.
Blacksmith make a sword for me, such as none did ever see
For ancient symbols of majesty, have power in troubled times
Iron Heart’s eyes grew wide as song’s lyrics sparked the fire of inspiration within him. HE had to be the one to make the swords, not his hammer, or his forge, or his anvil. Fred had told him that HE had to work the blade, and to feel the metal beneath him, and so Iron Heart quickly gathered up the blade and reheated the sword in order to remove the temper his hammer had put into it and start over, singing as he did so.
I’ll pump the fire to make my start, melted metal in the fire’s heart.
Now I name these blades with an older Art: The Foxfire Swords.
Using only a pair of tongs, Iron Heart drew the blazing blade from the heart of the tempering furnace and began to beat on it with a bare hoof. Smoke rose from the bone of the seared hoof, and Iron Heart paid it no mind, as he realized with joy that he had been right. Smiting the metal with his bare hoof allowed him to not only feel the contours of the fiery metal, but to sense what was inside of it.
I chant my words to the blazing mix, of ancient human and pony tricks.
To draw a Spirit, and Purpose fix, in what these blades will feel:
Faster and harder Iron Heart’s hoof came down, and each time he did his sense of what was going on inside the metal grew in scope and detail. Power grew inside of him, a bright wild magic that shone with the light of a hundred forges even as it enveloped his body in the chromatic light of Harmony made manifest.
The iron laws from Nature’s hand, the ruthless will of this ageless land.
The freedom only love can command, and I cast these thoughts in steel.
Iron Heart refused to give into the glory of magic as his own cutie mark flared into being, for he had a job to do, and gifts of love to make. His iron will pushed the power of Harmony through his body, bidding it to aid him in his cause, and seeing his need and desire, Harmony saw fit to grant it to him, armoring his hoof against the blazing metal.
Again and again Iron Heart brought his hoof down, pounding the metal, shaping it to his intent, warping and weaving power and strength into the metal. Iron was his will, iron was his hoof, iron was his heart, as he blended bronze and determination into something beyond anything seen on Earth or Equestria.
At first, the alloy resisted him, but as he forged onward the material moved and stretched according to his design, until he could almost see the crystals in the metal aligning to form an edge beyond razor keen. The lattice structure within the material deformed under the pounding, developing gaps and extrusions that slotted into each other like pieces of a puzzle,strengthening the whole.
Somewhere in the dark of that night, between the witching hour and the first gleam of dawn, Iron Heart paused and looked down into the depths of the golden blade before him, and found it good.
And now see that my work is done, and the new sword gleams like the setting sun.
All down the blade do the old runes run, a warning plain to see.
The metal glows like a burning brand. A meter long and more it stands.
The runes read: "I serve but the good, of Life and Harmony.”
Task at last completed, the smith finally released the power that he used to complete his task for the many hours it had taken. Iron Heart’s will had expended every erg of energy that the inception of his cutie mark had granted him, using it to create something that had never existed before as a gift of love and devotion. As the stallion collapsed to the floor of his shop, utterly spent, a sight graced his closing eyes with a vision that brought a weak smile to his muzzle.
Around Iron Heart in a loose circle, were not one, but five blades. Each shaped exactly as he had wanted them to be, each one glowing with the inner fires of their creation. Three gladii, a falchion and a scimitar. The Foxfire Swords.